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are not talking of genius,' Peak replied.

      'It was irrelevant, I know.--Well, yes, I _have_ conversed now and then with what you would call well-born women. They are delightful creatures, some of them, in given circumstances. But do you think I ever dreamt of taking a wife drenched with social prejudices?'

      Peak's face expressed annoyance, and he said nothing.

      'A man's wife,' pursued Earwaker, 'may be his superior in whatever you like, _except_ social position. That is precisely the distinction that no woman can forget or forgive. On that account they are the obstructive element in social history. If I loved a woman of rank above my own she would make me a renegade; for her sake I should deny my faith. I should write for the _St. James's Gazette_, and at last poison myself in an agony of shame.'

      A burst of laughter cleared the air for a moment, but for a moment only. Peak's countenance clouded over again, and at length he said in a lower tone:

      'There are men whose character would defy that rule.'

      'Yes--to their own disaster. But I ought to have made one exception. There is a case in which a woman will marry without much regard to her husband's origin. Let him be a parson, and he may aim as high as he chooses.'

      Peak tried to smile. He made no answer, and fell into a fit of brooding.

      'What's all this about?' asked the journalist, when he too had mused awhile. 'Whose acquaintance have you been making?'

      'No one's.'

      The suspicion was inevitable.

      'If it were true, perhaps you would be justified in mistrusting my way of regarding these things. But it's the natural tendency of my mind. If I ever marry at all, it will be a woman of far higher birth than my own.'

      'Don't malign your parents, old fellow. They gave you a brain inferior to that of few men. You will never meet a woman of higher birth.'

      'That's a friendly sophism. I can't thank you for it, because it has a bitter side.'

      But the compliment had excited Peak, and after a moment's delay he exclaimed:

      'I have no other ambition in life--no other! Think the confession as ridiculous as you like; my one supreme desire is to marry a perfectly refined woman. Put it in the correct terms: I am a plebeian, and I aim at marrying a lady.'

      The last words were flung out defiantly. He quivered as he spoke, and his face flushed.

      'I can't wish you success,' returned his friend, with a grave smile.

      'You couldn't help it sounding like a sneer, if you did. The desire is hopeless, of course. It's because I know that, that I have made up my mind to travel for a year or two; it'll help me on towards the age when I shall regard all women with indifference. We won't talk about it any more.'

      'One question. You seriously believe that you could find satisfaction in the life to which such a marriage would condemn you?'

      'What life?' asked Peak, impatiently.

      'That of an average gentleman, let us say, with house in town and country, with friends whose ruling motive was social propriety.'

      'I could enjoy the good and throw aside the distasteful.'

      'What about the distastefulness of your wife's crass conventionalism, especially in religion?'

      'It would not be _crass_, to begin with. If her religion were genuine, I could tolerate it well enough; if it were merely a form, I could train her to my own opinions. Society is growing liberal--the best of it. Please remember that I have in mind a woman of the highest type our civilisation can produce.'

      'Then you mustn't look for her in society!' cried Earwaker.

      'I don't care; where you will, so long as she had always lived among people of breeding and high education, and never had her thoughts soiled with the vile contact of poverty.'

      Earwaker started up and reached a volume from a shelf. Quickly finding the desired page, he began to read aloud:

      'Dear, had the world in its caprice Deigned to proclaim--I know you both, Have recognised your plighted troth, Am sponsor for you; live in peace!'--

      He read to the end of the poem, and then looked up with an admiring smile.

      'An ideal!' exclaimed Peak. 'An ideal akin to Murger's and Musset's grisettes, who never existed.'

      'An ideal, most decidedly. But pray what is this consummate lady you have in mind? An ideal every bit as much, and of the two I prefer Browning's. For my own part, I am a polygamist; my wives live in literature, and too far asunder to be able to quarrel. Impossible women, but exquisite. They shall suffice to me.'

      Peak rose, sauntered about the room for a minute or two, then said:

      'I have just got a title for my paper. I shall call it "The New Sophistry."'

      'Do very well, I should think,' replied the other, smiling. 'Will you let me see it when it's done?'

      'Who knows if I shall finish it? Nothing I ever undertook has been finished yet--nothing won that I ever aimed at. Good night. Let me hear about Malkin.'

      In a week's time Godwin received another summons to Staple Inn, with promise of Malkin's assured presence. In reply he wrote:

      'Owing to a new arrangement at Bates's, I start tomorrow for my holiday in Cornwall, so cannot see you for a few weeks. Please offer Malkin my apologies; make them (I mean it) as profuse as those he telegraphed. Herewith I send you my paper, "The New Sophistry", which I have written at a few vehement sittings, and have carelessly copied. If you think it worth while, will you have the kindness to send it for me to _The Critical_? I haven't signed it, as my unmeaning name would perhaps indispose the fellow to see much good in it. I should thank you if you would write in your own person, saying that you act for a friend; you are probably well known in those quarters. If it is accepted, time enough to claim my glory. If it seems to you to have no chance, keep it till I return, as I hate the humiliation of refusals.--Don't think I made an ass of myself the other night. We will never speak on that subject again. All I said was horribly sincere, but I'm afraid you can't understand that side of my nature. I should never have spoken so frankly to Moxey, though he has made no secret with me of his own weaknesses. If I perish before long in a South American swamp, you will be able to reflect on my personality with completer knowledge, so I don't regret the indiscretion.'

      CHAPTER III

      '_Pereunt et imputantur_.'

      Godwin Peak read the motto beneath the clock in Exeter Cathedral, and believed it of Christian origin. Had he known that the words were found in Martial, his rebellious spirit would have enjoyed the consecration of a phrase from such an unlikely author. Even as he must have laughed had he stood in the Vatican before the figures of those two Greek dramatists who, for ages, were revered as Christian saints.

      His ignorance preserved him from a clash of sentiments. This afternoon he was not disposed to cynicism; rather he welcomed the softening influence of this noble interior, and let the golden sunlight form what shapes it would--heavenly beam, mystic aureole--before his mind's eye. Architecture had no special interest for him, and the history of church or faith could seldom touch his emotions; but the glorious handiwork of men long dead, the solemn stillness of an ancient sanctuary, made that appeal to him which is independent of names.

      '_Pereunt et imputantur_.'

      He sat down where the soft, slow ticking of the clock could guide his thoughts. This morning he had left London by the earliest train, and after a night in Exeter would travel westward by leisurely stages, seeing as much as possible of the coast and of that inland scenery which had geological significance. His costume declared him bent on holiday,

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